


Trial Run

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Skinner solo, *very* close-up. Prequel and spoiler for 'Cats'.





	Trial Run

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Trial Run by Palinurus

25 October 1998  
Skinner solo, NC-17, *very* close-up. Prequel and spoiler for 'Cats'.

* * *

Trial run by Palinurus 

He had stacked all the dishes in the dishwasher, wiped down the kitchen counter, then cleaned the sink because it looked rather greasy, then the cabinet that held the detergent because it was full of detergent stains. Then he had gathered the dishrags, the hand towel and as an afterthought the oven mitts, dropped them in the laundry basket, and replaced them with clean ones. Leaning back against the counter, he admitted to himself that there was nothing else to clean. 

He knew what he was doing. Stalling. Procrastinating. 

It was hard to say what bothered him so much about this little... chore. It was mostly embarrassment, without a doubt. It seemed so awkward, even humiliating, although there was nobody to watch and giggle, to get turned on, to confront him about it later. He wondered about the id, the ego and the superego, or the parent, the adult and the child. There must be *some* animate puppet in his head, watching, leering, making him squirm. 

But it had to be done. In the name of safety, responsibility, and the rules of proper domination, it had to be done, and he'd do it. Come hell or high water.

He had considered a drink or two to make it easier, but that would be the coward's way out. And he didn't consider himself a coward.

He sighed, pushed himself away from the sink and slowly walked out, up the stairs, into the bedroom where all contours were softened by the dim, yellowish light. It seemed stiflingly hot, even more so after he'd closed the door; but although he'd turned the thermostat up to 75, he knew it was mostly his unease that made him sweat. Hugging himself, he leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder and considered the situation. The big bed usually looked inviting, but right now it inspired something akin to stage fright. The light was just right: bright enough to see what was important, and dim enough to obscure the corners of the room and to suggest intimacy. Privacy.

But there might as well have been a battery of cameras installed in his bedroom tonight, broadcasting his every move to the world. He looked around furtively, scanned the ceiling, the walls, for little holes that weren't supposed to be there. In this business, it was always a possibility, he told himself earnestly, ignoring the little manikin in his head that was silently laughing at him.

It had to be done. He looked at the little implement lying on the mattress, inside the hospitable little triangle where the covers were folded back. It didn't look very bad, but its suggestive shape made his stomach contract. A metallic cylinder, about twelve inches long, not quite an inch across, tapered on one end. He knew it was heavier than it looked. It took three batteries of a type he'd never seen before; together they generated 24 volts.

He noticed his shoulders and neck had contracted a bit. He slowly turned his head from side to side and shrugged to stretch the muscles, then walked over to the bed and picked up the cylinder. The wide end could be turned to adjust the output. He turned it up halfway and felt the tip -nothing. He licked the palm of his hand and tried again. This time there was a faint tingling. 

He sighed again, got up and began to undress. It was hard not to look for hidden cameras once more, but he managed. His extreme self-consciousness annoyed him, but he couldn't shed it. Maybe he should keep his shirt on... no, that would probably make things worse. Should he keep his glasses on? But they would get in the way, lying down, and there wasn't much that he wanted to see, anyway. His mind was painting enough lurid images to last him a lifetime. Suit jacket and pants carefully hung up, everything else dropped in a corner, he took the glasses off and placed them on the bedside table. Then he got the lube from the drawer and retreated to the bed.

Everything was ready. Nothing else to do.

He sat down and looked at the device again, with loathing. He didn't doubt that he was going to enjoy using it with Mulder, but right now it felt like his worst enemy. He sat, keeping one foot on the ground, the way a novice chess player holds on to his piece in its new place, allowing a way out until he can face the consequences of his decision, and stared, unknowingly biting his lip. Then he got up again and dimmed the light some more. It was now quite dark; but he reasoned he really only needed to be able to locate the lube and the... thing. The rest would have to be done by touch anyway.

Perched on the bedside again, he picked up the probe. Its metal hull was polished to perfect smoothness, glinting in the remaining light; its rounded tip somehow looked defiant. Touching it, then stroking it, he suddenly realized he was getting aroused. This was rather unsettling in itself. The damned thing looked too much like... its purpose (its *destination*) was too damned blatantly obvious. He grabbed the bottle of lube, poured some of its contents on the palm of his hand, and began lubricating the probe. His misguided mind now found the movements of his hand arousing as well. He bit his lip again and quickly finished the job, then reconsidered and applied some more lubricant. It wasn't going to be easy anyway; it made sense to make things as comfortable as possible.

Now he'd have to lie down. There was no other way to do it. His embarrassment suddenly was acute; his heart rate shot up, he flushed and clenched his jaws. I haven't felt so awkward since I was twenty, he though distractedly. I didn't like it then, either. God, Mulder, the things I do for you...

He looked at the probe again and its size began to alarm him. It won't be easy. Maybe I'll have to... maybe I should... prepare... but he couldn't really face that. It won't hurt too much, I'm sure. It's not nearly as big as... no, don't go there. But his erection was growing all the same. 

He moved over to the center of the bed, awkwardly holding the slippery phallus in one hand, and lay down on his back; but it was clear immediately that he couldn't reach far enough without pulling himself into an uncomfortable curl. He turned over on his stomach, only to find himself almost immobilized. The only possibility was to lie on his side, the one posture he'd hoped to avoid; it was too reminiscent of dozens of stubby, uncaring, gloved fingers invading, prodding, pushing... He turned, the damnable probe in his hand silently mocking him. At least it was comfortable, but he felt horribly exposed. Sweating, he tried to will his erection away; but it wouldn't budge. 

I'm going to very much regret this at the next physical...

Now... No, first a few deep breaths. He began to feel slightly light-headed, and suspected he was hyperventilating. He considered pulling up the covers, but it would be unbearably hot; he was already sweating like a packhorse. Finally he covered himself up to his chest anyway, and felt slightly comforted. He pulled up his upper knee to stabilize himself and then moved the hand holding the probe over his hip.

I don't think I can do this. 

Shut up Walter. You wimp.

Setting his jaw, he put the tip of the probe against his anus and pushed slightly, then immediately released the pressure. The intensity of the sensation was positively scary. His mouth was dry, his eyes felt gritty. At least his insistent erection showed signs of wilting. 

Hah! Chased you away, didn't I, little bugger?

Oh God. I really can't do it. And it will hurt too.

But you know how to do it almost painlessly, Walter. Why not use your experience now?

The very movements, the slow, twisting turn of the wrist, the gentle pulsing, so intimately associated with sex, with arousal, with imposing his will, with the slow conquering of *that* body... He almost groaned aloud, inevitably rock-hard once again. Wincing, he set to work, drops of sweat traversing his chest and landing on the mattress. The discomfort was acute, but it wasn't quite pain yet. He tried to coax himself into relaxing. Slowly, he worked the tip past the resistant muscle, then paused for a long moment, holding on to the probe; it would slip out again if he'd let go. 

He had never before realized quite how intrusive it was. The probe was barely halfway in, and it felt huge. It opened him up impossibly wide. It seemed to reach into the core of his body. He couldn't imagine what would happen if someone else would move it, touch it... He flinched at the thought, and gasped when he felt his muscles move against the metal, gripping it. God, it's so big...

He pushed again, and felt it slide in further, now causing slight discomfort in his abdomen. He waited again, and noticed he was trembling. Another inch or two... The pause stretched. He was very aroused, which unnerved him - he was a natural top, right? What if he'd suddenly find out that... Shut up, Walter. Prostate, nerve endings, all that...

Breathing slow, deep breaths, he managed the last bit, biting down on a gasp as he felt the thing move inside him. He had expected to feel relieved at this point, but he didn't feel relieved at all; he felt threatened. Impaled. Fighting an impulse to pull the damned thing out again and throw it in a corner, he lay still, telling himself to relax, but still so tense that he could feel his thigh muscles complain. His sphincter kept trying to push the invader out at irregular intervals. Then it slowly began to see reason, and he relaxed a bit. 

God. This is the scariest thing I've ever done. Well, almost.

It was suddenly unbearably hot under the covers, and he threw them back, first to his hips, then below his knees. Gingerly, he moved his thigh, and felt the probe move with it. He flexed a muscle experimentally, and it echoed through his body. Reaching behind him, he carefully touched the probe; a hot flash ran along his spine, making him gasp again. His erection was back in his mental field of vision, pulsing, demanding. His blood pounded in his ears.

I'll be damned.

He moved the probe a bit, pulling it out an inch or so, then back in, and felt his back arch. His breathing became shorter and faster. Still moving the probe in and out, he turned slightly half onto his stomach and lifted his leg a bit further. He was now very aroused, but his shoulder began to ache from moving at that awkward angle. What would it be like if there were someone there, moving that thing, pushing him into the pillows... 

Shit. I'm can't believe I'm doing this.

He stopped his hand movement and lay still for a moment, collecting his scattered wits. It was time to try the damned device, but it unnerved him. It was so close, so close to everything, to *him*... He took a deep breath and turned the dial slightly. He didn't feel anything. A bit more; there was the same tingling he had felt when he'd held it in his hand. Was that it? Was that all? He tried the dial again, and almost cried out loud. The tingling became red-hot, fluid, pulsing radiation, setting him alight with slow fire, making him curve his spine. His hips began to move, slow, suggestive thrusts, rubbing his cock against the mattress. 

It was overwhelming. He grabbed a pillow and buried his face in it, stuffing a corner into his mouth to stifle his moans. He floated, weightless in the heat, aware of nothing except the waves of arousal coursing through him. There was no room for rational though anymore, only a dumb litany: Oh God, this is unbelievable, don't let it stop, please, it has to go on, it's too much to bear but it *can't* stop, God... 

He was writhing, rubbing himself against the bedclothes like a cat in heat, his ass clenched around the cylinder, now trying to pull it in rather than expel it. Dimly, he was horrified at the display, but it was so good... so incredibly good... I can't come, I don't want to come yet... But it was beyond his control; the tidal wave carried him up, higher, impossibly high - and then unceremoniously dumped him into a climax. He cried out into the indifferent pillow.

The intense stimulation immediately became painful, and he reached back to switch it off. In his frantic confusion, he turned the dial the wrong way first, and cried out in pain. Then he managed to turn it off and slumped back, his ass still gripping the probe, muscles twitching. He was trembling, breathing in sobs. He felt his muscles slowly relaxing, one by one, thighs, back, shoulders, neck, jaw... Realizing he was about to fall asleep, he painfully raised himself onto one elbow and slowly pulled out the probe, awed at the length he'd managed to take in. And it hadn't even hurt... He was too exhausted to do anything but drop it behind him and flop down again.

Mulder, I have found something very interesting for you.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift away, a smile on his face.


End file.
